


Stolen Submission

by NicoNoble



Series: Stolen [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dom/sub, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Games, Murder, Oral Sex, Rape, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-08-30 00:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16754524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoNoble/pseuds/NicoNoble
Summary: Miroslav Zima is Russian born and Russian raised. He's violent, volatile, and wild like an animal. He's unbroken, for the moment, but if Madam Volkov can't sell him soon he'll likely end up in slave hell, Sergei's bed.Viktor Veronin came to the states as a child. He barely remembers Russia. The type of dominance he's prone to is going to get him arrested if he's caught, so his father recommends Madam Volkov's services.Serves as a kind of prologue to Stolen Innocence.





	1. Exotic Pet

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to Christ, I barely used Zima in Stolen Innocence. He was literally a plot device. And now I'm writing him his own 9/10 chapter Dom/sub porn series because I fucking love the name Zima and I could resist another slave story blame my muse.

Miroslav Zima leans against the wall, hazel eyes glancing from one end of the hallway to the other, nails digging harshly into the flesh of his crossed arms. He waits, silent as the grave, until the door opens. Cosmin peers at him, curly black hair in need of a cut, covering his eyes. He wipes the strands aside and nods. He's got the information now. The only issue is him escaping to save them. 

He'll never escape from Madam Volkov's. Both of them know it. Her guard dog, Sergei, has a nose for troublemakers. The only reason this part of their plan worked is that Sergei picks a returned, read used, boy to take to his room every Thursday. Many of them die. The rest are transported elsewhere to be trained into masochist whores, assigned a kink worse then Zima or Cosmin have ever witnessed. Cosmin was been classified as a Little. He's cute, sure, with his big blue eyes and long lashes, but he's a year younger then Zima and nearly as tall. He ruffles the younger boy's hair affectionately and they start walking. 

 

Zima has been classified as an unbroken sub. As one of the few native Russian speakers here, he knows exactly what that means. It means someone is going to want to break him to bridle and if he fucks up, they get bored, he goes to Sergei, which is hell in it's own right. Then he goes to a completely different realm of hell until his body is broken and he dies. It will not be an easy death. 

So the goal is to survive until Cosmin gets bought and escapes. This could take years. Zima, luckily, has years upon years of experience manipulating people and taking beatings, so he's sure he'll be fine. He can't worry about the others, the boys who he teaches Russian late nights in the dorm. Or even about Cosmin, who spends hours every day teaching him English while pretending he doesn't speak the language around everyone else. That's part of the younger boy's plan, after all. Just like hiding how smart he is. 

 

Zima stands stock still in the middle of the room, bare feet on soft carpet. He's lean, rather then stocky, with long legs that would suit a dancer. At seventeen he hasn't quite hit his final growth spurt, but his hands are small enough to guess that he doesn't have much growing left to do. He has dark brown hair and hazel eyes, set in a decidedly masculine face. His cheek bones are not overly pronounced, his nose it sharp, and there's a stubborn set to his jaw. When he stands like this, naked and young and angry, he's been told he looks like a statue. 

Madam Volkov sips her wine, greying black hair falling in waves, a dark plum dress stark against the white leather couch. Sergei stands behind him, by the door, feet planted apart. The perspective buyer is Russian, like them, and Zima idly wonders how long it's been since every person in this room was Russian. Madam Volkov had very few Russian boys. Apparently they were in high demand but harder to get. 

 

Viktor Veronin hadn't been to Russia since he was seven. The America's had brought wealth to his family, his father had climbed high in the ranks of the Russian mob, his mother had finished school and become a doctor, a genius in her own right. The only issue his family and he hadn't been able to deal with was his preference. The gender of his partner had never really bothered him. And pain didn't really get him off, so much as domination. Being in charge. Separating his lover from the outside world. They were concerned that his partner would be missed or worse, conceive a child, and he would end up in jail. Madam Volkov was his father's idea. A boy would not get pregnant and all of Madam Volkov's boys were orphans, well cared for, and tested for any and all diseases. 

"Miroslav, uncross your arms." Madam Volkov orders. 

The boy doesn't respond for a moment, but obeys before Sergei can move to hit him. Thin, crescent moon shaped marks line the boy's arms. Sergei grabs his wrist and yanks him forward. "You allowed to hurt yourself, boy?" 

The boy blinks at him. He looks bored. Or dead inside, could be either. 

"Does it matter? You'll sell me to American trash likes to beat me bloody and ruin me." He snarls in broken English. "Shove rules up your ass, bastard." He's tense, like a bow string, prepared for an angry response. 

Sergei laughs. It's a humorless sound. "Your English is better, Zima. Who's been tutoring you?" 

The boy remains stubbornly silent. "Exchange for teaching, not tell." 

So the boys have a barter system then, interesting. 

Sergei releases him and returns to his place by the door. 

Viktor beckons the boy forward. 

 

Zima obediantly crosses the carpet, so the man may touch. Big hands glide up his inner thighs, touching whatever they wish without hesitation or malice. The room is warm, by his standards, but the man shivers. Used to hot American weather. 

"Untrained?" The man asks, a hint of a Russian accent catching his attention. 

"Currently. If his behavior doesn't improve we may have to." 

The man raises an eyebrow. "And what do you do, boy, that gets you in so much trouble?" 

"Most don't speak Russian." Zima grumbles. "Translate so they can obey." 

"That's a problem?" 

Madam Volkov nods. "They need to learn. Better serve their masters that way. If Miroslav tells them then they have no reason to learn." 

Zima rolls his eyes. 

"Zima." Sergei warns. 

"You sadistic fucks may enjoy crying children but it gets on my final nerve!" Zima turns on him, growling. 

"Last nerve." The man laughs. "You mean last nerve." 

"Same difference." Zima snarls at Sergei, vibrating with anger. 

Sergei hits him so hard he bounces before crumpling to the floor. "Mind your tone, whore." 

"Mind your manners, dick for brains." 

 

Cosmin giggles, covering his mouth with both hands. "Sorry, sorry, your bruises aren't funny. You called him dick for brains? Seriously?" 

"He called me a whore." Zima stabs his food with a fork. "And the wolf kept calling me Miroslav, as usually. Even Sergei knows better." 

"You don't fight Madam Volkov, Zima, everyone knows that." Cosmin nibbles on his bread. He's on bread and water again. His smart mouth gets him into just as much trouble as Zima's. 

Zima spots Sergei, waiting by the door. As soon as his food is gone Sergei appears. "You've been purchased, Miroslav."

Zima tosses his tray, vaults over the table, and wraps his hands around Sergei's throat. 

 

Getting trainquilized by a guard was not on his lunch agenda. Sergei hasn't called him Miroslav since he beat the shit out of one of the guards for it in his first week. No one calls him Miroslav, it's a dead name, hated name, from his old life and he goes by Zima because it fits. Because Zima is fair and Miroslav is not. Because Miroslav was a scared little boy who couldn't defend himself, had no glory, no peace. And Zima is an angry teenage boy who'd rather fuck the world up then lie down and take it. 

And maybe that's why the almost Russian bought him, because he can't think of this bastardized American idea of a Russian as a part of his Homeland. Zima is tied up in the backseat of an expensive, shiny black car, on the floor. He's laying on his back, gagged for the man's pleasure, and this allows him to look. Take in every behavior, every twitch, every tell. The man smiles at him like children stare at domesticated pets in store windows, excited, reverant, and a little sadistic. 

The pseudo-American's phone goes off and Zima's breath catches in his throat. He answers, reaching down to thread his fingers through Zima's hair. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel good, persay, but it doesn't hurt. 

"Alaric, what's up? Oh, we had a meeting today." His nose twitches, inspite of his smile. Whoever this Alaric is, the man doesn't like him. "Sorry, I was busy. I got a call from Madam Volkov. Ah, you don't know who she is. She sells a very specific, expensive product. You'd like her toys. She sells your type as well." He laughs and it sounds like the man on the other end is yelling. "I'll send you her number. Don't worry your pretty little head, she's discreet." He hangs up, sends a one handed text message, and glances down at Zima. "Well, he's a prick, but he makes me a lot of money." 

Zima scowls at him. 

"I know, I know, you don't like me. That's fine. I'm a very likable person, that will change." The man glances out the window. "I love New York, I do, but it's so cold here in the winter. You're used to the cold, aren't you Miroslav? My little Siberian tiger." 

Zima growls at the sound of his name. Tiger, he can put up with. Miroslav though, is not the be accepted, and he'll show the man just how much of a tiger he is. 

 

He's abandoned on the floor of a penthouse apartment, still tied up. A window breaks. Sloppy work, he hisses behind the gag, sawing at his bindings with the sharp metal edge of the coffee table he'd drug himself over to fifteen minutes ago. The rope is corse and freys easily. It breaks just as the intruder comes into view. Smiling green eyes peer out from behind a black ski mask. 

Zima hides his hands behind his back and waits. The man approaches, long strides, without any caution. "Viktor certainly takes them young." He laughs, leaning forward. "Angry little slut, aint'cha? You piss your boyfriend off?" 

Zima snarls at him from behind the gag and jerks forward, pretending to still be tied. The man reaches forward and squeezes his dick through his sweats, hard, and Zima keens. 

"Yeah, yeah, faggot, calm down. Viktor ain't gonna be back for a couple hours, I've got time to play with you." He yanks Zima's sweats down. "Aw, you're shaking. Scared?" 

No, he's pissed and waiting for an opening before this fuckhead actually does fuck him. He jerks forward, this time pretending to hump the man's hand, play the part of the slut he's been cast as. The man hums. "Viktor's a sadist, ain't he? Won't let his pretty pet get off? Want me to get you off, cutie-pie?" 

Zima nods, whining, and the man grinds his hand against Zima's boxers. "How about you cum like a good boy and daddy fucks another orgasm or two outta you after?" 

Zima nods and the man yanks his gag out. "Say please." 

"Please! Please Daddy!" Zima moans, jerking forward again. 

The man smiles and he sees his chance. He jerks forward and bites down, hard. 

 

Viktor returns to a bloody apartment. The boy is kneeling by the coffee table, unbound, leaning over a body. He turns to face Viktor and grins, showing bloody teeth, and spits. The man on the floor hasn't been dead long. Viktor notices the abandoned sweats on the floor. He's not stupid enough to approach an adrenaline high boy slut who's just torn the throat out of an intruder. It definitely makes him want to train the tiger boy. Having someone like that at your side, a real guard dog, is definitely as asset in this line of work. He dials. "Charlie, I need better gear. My kitten got free. Also, kitten caught a rat. Place is a mess, send a cleaner. And a trainq gun, I don't think he's gonna let anyone near him otherwise."

The boy yawns, blood drying on his arms and legs, as well as his face. "Call me Miroslav again and you join American rat. It's Zima."


	2. Master's Lead

The boy, Zima, Viktor reminds himself. The boy calls himself by his last name and in seems to fit him better then Miroslav, at least. He's the kind of cold that makes you hot, angry and volatile like a blizzard, the painful kind of cold. He's a snarling beast and collaring him like one has him hard enough to risk touching. 

Zima yanks on the edge of the black leather collar. He seems more bored by it then anything, hazel eyes half closed, still hazy from the drugs. The collar is chained to the headboard. He can't move unless he's leashed and removed. The three feet he can move his head prove to be more frustrating then useful. Viktor glances at him periodically. He's still working, true, but the boy is quite the distraction. 

The boy stares at him for a solid ten minutes, blinking lazily, before he reacts. 

"What is it, Zima?" 

"When are you gonna do it?" Zima asks, voice bored. 

"Do what?" What has the pretty pet on his bed envisioned? What has that beautiful, fucked up mind conjured up to torment him with?

The boy lifts his hands and uses air quotes. "Break me on your fat cock." 

Viktor snorts. "Later, pet. And I doubt one fucking, even from me, is gonna break you to bridle. You're not a sniveling child, now are you Zima?" 

"I can take anything you can dish out, American." Zima leans back against the headboard. 

"I'm just as Russian as you are." Viktor shakes his head. 

"You are American. You talk like American. You act like American. You shake in cold like American. You eat like American. You probably fuck like American." There's no insult in his tone. It sounds like an observation. 

Viktor raises an eyebrow. "How does an American fuck?" 

"The same way they eat. Selfish and starving." Zima closes his eyes. "When can I leave bed, then, if you aren't going to fuck me? I have to piss." 

"I'll take you in a bit. You can hold it, can't you? You're a big boy." 

"You know, the American who's throat I ripped out wanted me to call him Daddy. You try it and you'll join him. I hate pedophiles." His tone is conversational. Viktor's curious where the boy learned to have so little regard for life.

"Who doesn't? You think little boys turn me on? You're the opposite of a little boy, Zima." Viktor returns to him computer. "Shut up or it'll be even longer before I take you out."

 

Zima finds the entire being handcuffed while trying to piss debacle to be the most annoying thing he's ever delt with. And he's delt with a lot of annoying things. Cosmin when he's sick, for example, and trying to keep the little Romanian from getting murdered. He'd thought nothing would compare to a snotty Cosmin snarling curses in Russian, Romanian, Bulgarian, and Estonian. And the coughing while he was trying to sleep, god. 

Maybe sick Cosmin was worse and he just hated being bound. That was probably it. 

The man yanks his pants down to his ankles. He nods. "You've got a pretty nice dick, Zima."

"I will eat you." Zima mumbles. "Fillet you alive and cut you open. Eat your fucking entrails."

A big hand smacks his ass. "I've put up with a lot, Zima, but I'm putting my foot down at threats of death. Today. Tomorrow we'll go over the rules, but now, no death threats." 

"Never said it would kill you." Zima snaps. "To good a death for you, American. Would have to think more on your death." 

"Don't bother. Hurry up and piss, kitten. I have work to finish before I can 'break you on my fat cock'."

Zima snarls, clenching his fists, and the handcuffs dig into his wrists. 

 

The drugs are to make his pet more pliable, but they don't dull his senses. Between the drugs, the cuffs, and the spreading bar, he has a snarling kitten on his bed. Zima jerks against his binds, growing weaker with every jerk. Viktor finishes his work while the boy wears himself out. 

"Get it over with!" Zima snaps, shaking with anger and exertion. This position puts an unfair amount of weight on his wrists. It probably hurts. 

"I am busy." Viktor glares at him. "I will deal with you when done. Be patient." 

"You drugged me for this?!" He sounds angry and confused. "Torture? What kind of sadist freak are you?" 

Viktor rises, undoes his tie, and uses it to gag Zima. "Silence, brat."

 

"Veronin." Alaric Leroy scowls at him from the doorway. "Your assistant tried to schedule me for next  _month_. Do you realize how insulting that is?"

Viktor sighs. "Did you make an appointment with Madam Volkov?" 

"I'm undecided." Alaric steps inside and Viktor shuts the door behind him. 

"Would you like to see my kitten, then?" Viktor grins. He enjoys the idea of showing off his little piece of the motherland. 

Alaric hesitates before nodding and Viktor guides him into the bedroom.

Zima is still struggling, wrists bound high enough to keep his back from touching the bed. His struggles have become weaker though, sweat dripping down his body from exertion. 

"I was just about to fuck him when you got here. He's been strung up for three hours now." 

Alaric looks mildly disgusted, but interested. "He's strong."

"You sound disappointed." Viktor had figured Alaric would enjoy the breaking as much as the training. "They have other boys you know. Ones that fight less or more. Tall ones and small ones, blondes, ones with blue eyes. Ones with better manners or smarter. I chose Zima because he's angry and a fighter. Someone broke into my apartment this afternoon and Zima tore his throat out. Boys like him are rare." Viktor reaches out and caresses a tense thigh. "If I take your gag out, will you answer any questions he has?" 

Zima glares at him before nodding. The gag is removed. "If I do will you fuck me already and let me down,  _master_?" The last word is a snarl of venom and hate, but it's an improvement over American, so he takes what he can get. 

"What happens to the pretty, petulant, little boys? Your age, but shorter."

Zima thinks of Cosmin. "They get cute clothes, make them look younger. The snarky ones, I'm assuming that's what petulant means, get smacked around. The angry, snarky ones get bread and water suppers, smacks, and time outs. The wolf calls them Littles." 

"Zima is an unbroken sub. His response to praise is undocumented because he's never earned any." 

Zima snorts. "I'd rather be broken and dead in a ditch then suck guard cock and play pretty toy. The boys who do don't last long. Bought, many returned, and they walk into hell obedient before they wish they could die."

"Returned?" Alaric looks more interested by the second. 

"The returned boys go to Sergei. He breaks them. Then they go to the trainers. By then death would be a blessing. Only one in four survive, if you can call it survival. The returned are the ones their masters grew bored of. We know better then to be boring." Zima relaxes. "If we run out of ways to be entertaining, we start trying to kill. The unbroken anyway. Every man who's tried to fuck me has died. No other slave can say that, not in the Wolf's Den." 

 

"You can support a woman who allows this? Sex slaves are one thing, but training so harsh that it kills 75% of her stock?" Alaric grinds his teeth. 

"Madam Volkov is an institution." Viktor lights a cigarette and shakes it in the night air of the balcony. "She produces 90% of my male stock. I knew of the return program and I despise it, but I still make plenty of profit. When she dies and her daughter Ana takes over, soon hopefully, the return program dies out."

"And your kitten?" 

Viktor smiles. "I plan on keeping him until one of us dies. He'll make quite the fucktoy and a watchdog, once I've defanged him. Train a tiger to defend you and he'll kill for you to. He killed some plucky Irish bastard, thought to fuck my toy. He's demonstrated the teeth. All that's left is to 'break him on a my fat cock', god I want to kiss the bastard who taught him that turn of phrase." He takes a drag. "Have you decided to find your own boy, a little, perhaps? You seemed interested earlier." 

Alaric nods, slowly, after a moment. "Better me then someone else." 

 

 

 


End file.
